


still painting flowers for you

by crunchyseaweed



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: A Light Smattering of Angst, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bottom Richie Tozier, Cock Warming, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Emotional Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Post-Canon, References to Canon, Richie Tozier Cries During Sex, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier's Birthday, Slice of Life, Top Eddie Kaspbrak, a significant lack of plot, okay this got kinda horny and for what, this is all dumb and disgustingly domestic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29877027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crunchyseaweed/pseuds/crunchyseaweed
Summary: A day in the life of Richie Tozier and Eddie Kaspbrak. Oh, and it’s Richie’s 45th birthday.Alternatively: Richie and Eddie being sappy and grossly in love for about 10k words not so straight.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 83





	still painting flowers for you

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday to the one and only richie tozier, the love of my life! i started writing this completely based on a Vibe™ and this is what i ended up with. anyways, here, have some plotless ooey gooey nonsense with only a side dish of angst to celebrate. also smut, which i have miraculously written for the first time, so go easy on me. 
> 
> also was unsure if i needed to tag for graphic descriptions of violence, since this fic does have somewhat detailed references to Eddie’s canonical injuries, so warning for that. please let me know if you think it’s needed and i’ll add it in. 
> 
> thank you to [domi](https://twitter.com/kaspsbrak) for the beta (you're the best) and [dianaothemyscira](https://dianaothemyscira.tumblr.com/) for reading through this before i posted it! title is from painting flowers by all time low.

Some nights, Eddie can’t sleep. Not properly anyways. Richie often wakes up at some ungodly hour to find him curled up in the antique-looking armchair they thrifted, situated in the corner of their room, facing their bed. He’s often reading a book, or deep diving Wikipedia pages on his phone, his wiry reading glasses sitting slightly crooked on his angular, handsome face. Tonight, he’s wrapped up in the fuzzy Ikea blanket that’s usually thrown haphazardly over the chair, with his nose in one of Bill’s earlier books (one of the better ones, in Richie’s opinion, despite its shit-as-usual ending). Richie watches him quietly from his side of the bed, taking the image of him in, as much as he can see without his glasses anyways. 

Eddie’s like a resting cat, and the last thing Richie wants to do is make any sudden movement that might spook him. The warm light illuminates certain angles of his face. Richie is able to catch the shadows of the deeper lines in Eddie’s face; the divot between his eyebrows etched into his skin from years of scowling, and more recently, the deepening of the crinkles of laughter lines around his droopy eyes. Richie’s heart aches slightly, a faint yearning for the years they’d missed out on; the years that Richie wasn’t there to contribute to the vast majority of the history of lines on Eddie’s face. When Eddie starts to look like he’s trying too hard to stay focused on the page in front of him, Richie shifts, reaching for his glasses on the side table. Eddie startles slightly, taking in a sharp breath as he whips his head up to look at Richie. 

“Hey handsome, can’t sleep?” Richie asks, his voice raspy with sleep. Eddie blinks, and then sighs, his shoulders relaxing and his face twisting up into something unreadable; just a touch sad, if you asked Richie. Richie’s almost an expert in Eddie’s moods, and he knows the remedies by heart. Richie flips open the blankets and shudders a little at the sudden cold, before tapping on the mattress once, twice. An invitation for Eddie. Eddie’s face softens a little, and he slots a bookmark in its place before throwing the blanket off his shoulders. He crawls into Richie’s arms and tucks his face right under his chin, his cold nose pressing into Richie’s sensitive neck. Eddie runs a little cold, these days; a new organ and losing half a lung doesn’t exactly do wonders for your circulation. 

“Ah, fuck, you’re freezing, you fucking gremlin,” Richie complains. Eddie, the bastard, presses his ice cold feet against his shins, attempting to twist and tangle their limbs into an unrecognisable mess. Eddie grumbles a half-assed apology as he kisses Richie’s neck softly, before shoving a hand unceremoniously under his body to pull him closer. Richie huffs a laugh, and lets himself be tugged into Eddie’s embrace. Settling into a comfortable position, Richie presses his face into Eddie’s hair, breathing in the scent of him, mixed in with the faint remnants of his sweet, citrus shampoo. 

“Did I wake you?” Eddie murmurs, sounding genuinely apologetic this time. He presses another kiss to the soft, sensitive spot. A wave of goosebumps ripples across Richie’s skin. Richie shakes his head. 

“What’s got you up, buttercup?” Richie asks softly, moving a hand to cradle the back of Eddie’s head, running his fingers through it. Eddie exhales a soft snort, and keens into Richie’s touch. 

“Don’t know, just woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. The usual,” Eddie says around a yawn. Richie knows it’s not just insomnia; it’s nightmares, most of the time. He isn’t immune to those either, he’s had his fair share of hazy visions of Eddie crouching over him, donning a radiant smile, prematurely victorious about killing It just before he’s fucking skewered by the alien claw. Richie shivers at the memory of Eddie’s blood splattering over his face, filling his nose and mouth, sharp and metallic and so, so fucking warm; a stark contrast to the warmth of his body now going lax in his arms, giving into his tiredness. Richie swallows hard, and tugs Eddie impossibly closer. 

“Hey,” Richie whispers, wincing at how strained he sounds. Eddie untucks his face from Richie’s neck, his tired eyes concerned. 

“Hey yourself,” Eddie says, bringing a hand up to Richie’s face, thumbing the thin skin under his eye. Richie’s eyes flutter shut for a couple seconds, and Eddie leans up and kisses Richie gently on the mouth. Richie melts into it, like he always does. He kisses back with increasing desperation, reaching under Eddie’s shirt to trace the outline of his body, chasing the feeling of Eddie’s skin on his. 

When Eddie pulls away, Richie feels the urge to whine. “You alright?” Eddie asks, his hand resting on the soft flesh around Richie’s waist. The ache in his chest comes back, an emptiness, a longing for something he doesn’t know how to grasp quite yet. He feels the sting behind his nose, and promptly blinks back the tears that threaten to spill over. He opens his eyes to meet Eddie’s, who is now looking at him, his gaze soft and sleep heavy. 

He smiles, hoping it reaches his eyes. “Yeah, baby, right as rain,” Richie says. Eddie narrows his eyes slightly at him, and Richie knows he’s not being inconspicuous by any means. Still, he can’t help the wash of relief that comes over him when Eddie burrows back into his arms and presses his face into his chest, deciding to let it go. 

“I love you, dumbass. Go to sleep,” Eddie says, muffled against Richie’s shirt. Richie presses his face back into Eddie’s hair. Richie whispers it back. It’s ingrained into his psyche. He always, always says it back. Eddie, just before he falls over the precipice of sleep, squeezes Richie tighter around his soft middle, and mumbles, quietly, “Happy birthday, Richie.”

–––

It’s strange, sometimes, to hold Eddie in his arms. To crowd him up against the kitchen counter and bury his face into the soft junction of Eddie’s neck and shoulder while he grumpily makes his morning coffee. To press up against him skin for skin when they fuck and feel every inch of Eddie against his own body. To wrap his hand up in Eddie’s and feel the fingers squeeze back reassuringly, when they’re just walking in the street, or sitting in the car. Richie savours it every time; the heat that radiates from his body, the tenseness of the muscles of his shoulders, the _life_ that buzzes beneath the surface of his skin. 

Eddie’s standing at the kitchen counter like he does every morning, making himself a cup of coffee. Black, no milk, just three spoonfuls of sugar, choosing to indulge his sweet tooth this morning. His usual inclination towards noisiness at any other time of the day is currently stamped out by the (according to him) ungodly hour of 11am. They slept in a little, today. Eddie had climbed on top of Richie and licked the morning breath out of his mouth, taking him into his hand and pulling a very nice orgasm out of him, thank you very much. Afterwards, they passed out again for about 10 minutes, recovering, before Eddie kicked both their asses into the shower. 

Richie seats himself up on the kitchen island, the cold marble sticking to his thighs, watching him quietly. He’s wearing one of Richie’s old tour shirts, ratty and full of holes and comfortable. It drapes loosely over Eddie’s compact frame, the neckline so stretched out it hangs off one of Eddie’s shoulders. The edge of the ridged scar peeks out at Richie, now a pale pink. He doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s shoulders tense ever so slightly, or the minute shake of his hands, as he pops his prescribed immunosuppressants out of their packet, downing them with his coffee. Fighting bitter tastes with bitter tastes. _I love you_ , Richie thinks, the sentiment hitting him like a freight train every single time. _I love you and I’m so proud of you and I’m so sorry._

It’s a reminder of everything Richie has right now; a reminder of when he held Eddie’s body, branded with a new hole in its centre, drained of life and a whole fuck-ton of blood, back in the bowels of Neibolt. A reminder of when he, out of some sheer force of willpower, had hauled Eddie’s limp body out of that cistern and into the emergency room, absolutely covered in shit and piss and wailing _Please, please, someone fucking help!_

They’ve come a long way since then. It had passed in a blur; Eddie’s extended stint in the hospital, his absolute mess of a divorce, him making the decision to finally quit his job to move across the country to stay with Richie. Myra had drained him of a good fraction of his assets, and Eddie had let her take it all, frustrated and tired of being squashed beneath her thumb. Richie knows about some of it, though it’s been a good couple of years since then at this point. The bigger parts of it, at least. The restraining order, especially, since she had no idea how to stop calling them from different numbers after getting all prior points of contact blocked off. Moving all his medical information to a new hospital and finding a new doctor and physiotherapist he actually trusted wasn’t a joy ride either. 

But Eddie has always been brave enough for the two of them. Resilient and loud and never half-asses anything. Heart of a lion, lined with gold. Richie can’t be prouder of him. 

Things are good now, or as good as they can be. The cracks in the foundation of his career are still dangerously close to disintegrating, but he makes do. Coming out was hard, so to speak. All ends of the spectrum of what kind of forgiveness for shitty actions a celebrity deserved (or didn’t) came to a point in his face and subsequently blew up. The Internet is relentless as always, but his grasp on maintaining some kind of authenticity (gay, proud, loud) while keeping the best parts of his life private hasn’t slipped yet. No one really has an idea of what Eddie looks like, bar those who stick around long enough after a handful of his shows and the grand total of two blurry photos of Eddie flipping paparazzi off while they were out and about getting groceries. Bev had those framed and mailed to them. 

Sometimes Richie forgets that it hadn’t always been like this. As though they hadn’t gone through hell and back just to end up here, back together, like the universe intended. Two souls, bonded together ever since Richie, at the tender age of five, had accidentally tripped Eddie on the school playground and subsequently made fun of him for crying, only to get a rather nasty but deserved bruise kicked into his shin. Two souls that had come back together decades later; older, mirrored versions of their younger selves, hunched over with the weight of living, but laughing and bickering like they had never let each other out of their periphery since the first encounter. And wouldn’t that have been nice? To have never forgotten each other? 

It’s all moot, though, Richie thinks, as Eddie places his now empty mug in the sink and walks over to him and slots himself between Richie’s legs, arms possessive around his waist. He leans up, a soft smile on his face as he kisses him again, gentle and warm and deep. It’s a greeting, an exaltation, a promise. Richie kisses him back with fervour, Eddie’s soft lips in harmony with his own chapped ones. He grips at Eddie’s shoulders, guilt-ridden fingers moving down to trace the scar beneath his shirt. The point is: Eddie is here. Eddie is _alive_. Eddie is here because he wants to be here, or at least, Richie thinks so. 

–––

It’s a lazy Sunday for them. Richie cooks them brunch; poached eggs (Richie’s been trying different methods out to see which works best; today he’s put vinegar in the water), fried spinach, ham, whole grain toast, and avocado (an attempt was made at slicing it delicately into the shape of a rose, another new thing he’s been trying out). As he cracks an egg into a small china bowl, Eddie comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his torso. 

“You know, I should be doing the cooking for you this morning,” Eddie says, muffled in Richie’s shirt. Richie chuckles, and goes to drop the egg into the simmering water. It slides out of the bowl easily, hitting the water with a soft _plep_. Richie cracks another egg into the bowl. Eddie’s arms wrap around his waist tighter. 

“Says who?” Richie asks, dropping the next egg in. Eddie garbles something back inanely. “I want to cook for you. Besides, you’d just get mad that the eggs didn’t scramble properly when it was you who turned the heat too high. And _then_ , you’ll be a goblin for the rest of the day.” 

Eddie pinches the soft chub at his waist in retaliation, just enough to tickle. Richie, honest to God, giggles, and grabs his hand and spins around, looking at Eddie. Eddie smacks playfully at his hand, his face scrunched up, pretending like he’s actually mad, fighting to get his arm out of Richie’s grip. Richie grins, relenting, and brings his arms up to rest on Eddie’s shoulders. Eddie smacks his chest, just to get the last say in, before resting his head on the offended area, soothing it. “I’m working on it! Cooking takes practice, you said so yourself! Dickshit,” he grumbles. Richie’s heart swoops and swells three times its size. “Besides,” Eddie continues, peering up at him. “I already have myself a nice house husband, why would I need to learn how to cook when he already does that for me?” 

“Oh really? Who is this guy and have I met him?” Richie asks. His ring finger has never felt so naked. 

“Mm, I’ll introduce you some time. He treats me real well. Cooks delicious food; cleans sometimes, even though he doesn’t always do a great job; fucks me real good, too. Best service top in the area. Oh, have I mentioned he cooks?” 

Richie can feel the flush travelling down to his neck. Eddie grins up at him, boyish and annoyingly charming and oh, so devastating. 

“Would love to meet this house _husband_ of yours, babe,” Richie says pointedly, before turning back to his eggs. Eddie loosens his arms to let him turn around and tightens them once he does. “Fair warning, though, if his cooking is better than mine, I’m leaving you screaming and crying. The neighbours _will_ speak.” 

Eddie snorts, hooking his chin on Richie’s shoulder before replying, nonchalantly, in his ear: “You’ll meet him soon.” 

Richie starts to itch just beneath his skin, a warm hum dancing its way into his muscles. He takes a deep breath, before grabbing a slotted spoon to gently scoop out the eggs to plate them amongst the rest of their already prepared food. Eddie lets go of him to grab some cutlery from their drawer, setting them down on the kitchen island. 

He gingerly places Eddie’s plate in front of him, watching in anticipation as Eddie slices open the egg, the bright yellow yolk running smoothly over the white porcelain. It’s perfectly cooked, and Eddie grins excitedly at Richie, his face lighting up and his eyes going wide. Richie fist-pumps the air, fighting the urge to yell in victory. He carefully cuts into his own and watches the yolk run beautifully.

–––

It’s not like marriage hasn’t been a discussion between the two of them, but Richie wants Eddie to take it at his own pace too. His one and only marriage only went so well, and it’s not like Richie has had any experience in the field. His parents weren’t exactly all around functional for him to have a good image of what marriage was either. 

Richie remains seated at the counter, upon Eddie’s insistence, as he washes their dishes, his gloved, soapy fingers squeaking against the plates. He’s going off about Jim from work, who is apparently Eddie’s source of office gossip and also the bane of his productivity. Richie never really pegged Eddie to be someone that’s interested in the lives of his colleagues, but he seems to be enjoying his new job way more than his last. Richie still doesn’t know what he does, per se, but he has shown his face at get-togethers a couple of times, enough to know what Eddie’s colleagues (friends?) are like. 

They’ve been together long enough for their lives to intertwine and overlap with each other, a neatly woven pattern of domesticity and partnership. It’s not like they have to get married, they probably spend more time together and know each other more than most married couples do. But the idea is nice, Richie thinks. Complementing tuxedos and friends and champagne. Even if it seems like an extra step to secure their relationship. 

Eddie is still rambling about going to dinner at one of his colleague’s next week, and Richie just hums and nods as Eddie goes on. 

“Hey,” Eddie says, taking one of his yellow rubber gloves off and snapping it against Richie’s arm wetly. Richie recoils, shooting Eddie a look of mock offense. “Dickhead, I know you’ve zoned out.” 

“What? No,” Richie drags out the Os at the end, watching Eddie roll his eyes and take off the other glove and lay it beside the sink. He walks over to Richie and leans on his elbows, resting his chin on his hand. 

“Yeah? So we should definitely get Van and their wife a bunch of spiked dildos for their housewarming party?” Eddie deadpans, raising an eyebrow. Richie stares at Eddie, and then bursts into peals of laughter. 

“I mean, that sure sounds like a party, doesn’t it? I can’t believe you suggested that, you little freak.” 

“Moron, I was trying to see if you were still listening!” Eddie exclaims, his hand coming up to do his signature karate chop in Richie’s direction. Richie, grinning, and also mentally 12 years old, slaps a high-five into Eddie’s open palm. Eddie breathes in a frustrated sigh, retracting his hand to pinch between his brows. Richie cackles, creeping fingers dragging Eddie closer to him by his waist. Eddie lets himself be pulled in, their earlier conversation already forgotten. 

_God, he really hasn’t changed_ , Richie thinks, snuggling his head into Eddie’s chest. Well, maybe a few things have changed; older, a new spleen, accumulated experiences that come with the passage of time, et cetera, et cetera. But at his very core, Eddie is still very much the same kid from years ago. Small and feisty and brimming with anger, with absolutely no concept of an inside voice. The vein that pops out on the right side of his forehead when he gets really, truly mad about something is relatively new to Richie, but even that seemed like a practically inevitable feature for Eddie to develop. It’s as though Richie has missed nothing and everything about Eddie all at once. 

_I love you, I love you so much I want to swallow you whole_ , Richie thinks. Screams it into the chamber of his mind palace, letting it reverb all around. Richie figures that whatever their stance on marriage is, Eddie is it for him. The end of the line, his ever after, his north star, all that sappy bullshit. Richie’s heart a compass whose needle has felt misaligned his entire life, but was pointing towards Eddie the whole time; he never realised it until he stepped into The Jade that fateful night and suddenly all he could think was _oh, there you are_ and _it’s you, of course it’s you_. He hasn’t thought about what his life might be like if Eddie never showed up that night, or if Eddie never made it past the townline of Derry, succumbing to the new hole in his chest. Richie shakes the thought as quickly as it manifests in his head. It doesn’t matter; he’s here, Richie reminds himself, again and again. And it’s all there, their future, laid out and ready for them to take on. Two souls, lost and wandering and then found again, by each other. And it’s warm, and beautiful, and fucking terrifying. 

–––

“Something’s bothering you,” Eddie says later on, when they’re melting into the couch post-brunch and fucking around on their phones. Richie cocks an eyebrow, stealing a quick furtive glance at Eddie before redirecting his line of vision back to his Twitter timeline. Once his eyes glaze over at the endless threads on the elections, he sighs and closes the app, staring at his home screen for approximately 0.5 seconds before opening Twitter back up. He pointedly ignores the noise of Eddie clearing his throat at him, and then his head is suddenly the crash site of one of their couch cushions. It bounces off and lands back in front of Eddie. 

“Hey, fuck you, you little shit,” Richie whines, glasses askew on his face. Eddie crawls closer to him, narrowing his eyes at him. He grabs Richie’s phone out of his hand and locks it, placing it face down on the coffee table, before reaching up to readjust Richie’s glasses. Richie tries his damndest to not swoon at the tiny gesture. 

“What’s got you all… I don’t know. Sad? Melancholic?” Eddie asks quietly, placing a careful hand on Richie’s thigh. 

“You want a thesaurus?” 

Eddie presses his lips together, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Pillow to the face, again. Richie sputters. A hand flails for the nearest pillow (the Pusheen cat one), and he swings it back, yelling, “Oh you’re fucking on, motherfucker!” 

Eddie yells back something incoherently, a wild grin plastered on his handsome face and wielding his own pillow as a shield as Richie starts to rain attacks onto him with the poor plush cat pillow. 

Ten minutes and several breaths short later, they collapse on the couch, laughing like teenagers. Richie feels like one. Sweaty, brimming with emotions, and disgustingly in love with his best friend. He sprawls atop Eddie, burying his face into his chest. Eddie ruffles his hair affectionately, fingers tangling in his messy curls. 

“So,” Eddie says. “Are you gonna tell me what’s bugging you?” Richie firmly shakes his head, face down, mumbling out an _mm-mm_. Eddie sighs, and tugs frustratedly at the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Mm, baby, if you keep doing that, I’m gonna get a boner and I can’t get it up so soon, you know this,” Richie leers, resting his chin on Eddie’s chest, gazingly lovingly up his nose. Eddie rolls his eyes. 

“I just want to help,” he says, so genuine it hurts. “I want you to feel good. Let me do that for you.” 

Richie smiles, and it feels wobbly; his cheeks start to ache a little with the onset of tears that he is definitely not going to let escape past his tear ducts. 

“I have a secret to tell you, Eds,” Richie replies. Eddie’s eyes narrow immediately, despite the glimmer of hope in them. Richie crawls up slightly, and gets his face close to Eddie’s, eye to eye. “You already do,” he stage-whispers. Eddie scoffs and rolls his eyes, shoving his palm into Richie’s face, fighting the bashful smile spreading across his face. Richie climbs just a little further up to press Eddie into the couch, kissing him, all smiles and laughter. 

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Richie,” Eddie says, pulling back, suddenly cool and calm. He grabs Richie’s face with one hand and grips his chin just a touch roughly. Richie’s eyes glaze over almost immediately. “No deflecting with me, sweetheart. But tell me when you’re ready, okay?” 

Trust Eddie’s bullshit meter to come into play every time he’s in any remotely vulnerable state. Richie internally curses his apparent transparency to Eddie before he nods. Eddie hums approvingly and Richie feels his entire body light on fire. Richie shoves his burning face back into Eddie’s chest. 

“I hate you,” he mumbles into Eddie’s skin, feeling a gentle laugh ripple through Eddie’s body. His fingers find his way back into Richie’s hair, curling into the strands. 

–––

They spend the rest of the day napping after a very noisy group call with the Losers. Richie wakes up, disoriented, around 5pm, hearing the chime of the doorbell. The missing warmth of Eddie’s body next to his is suddenly apparent. He pads out of their bedroom to find Eddie in the kitchen, his hair still sticking up at the back from their nap, opening up a box. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Eddie says, going pliant against Richie’s body as Richie wraps him up from behind and presses his face into his neck, breathing him in. 

“Missed you,” Richie murmurs, and means it with his entire being. Eddie leans his head back onto Richie’s shoulder, and presses a gentle kiss to his stubbly cheek. 

“I’ve been here the whole time, love,” Eddie says softly, resting a hand on one of Richie’s arms, fingers perfunctorily playing with the thick hair there. Richie glances down at the box, filled with intricately decorated cupcakes. Eddie fumbles with the card with his free hand. 

“Oh, they’re from Steve and the team,” Eddie tells him, showing him the card with Steve’s scrawl wishing him a _Happy 45th Birthday, Dick!_ , before cooing over the baked goods. “Look at how pretty.” 

They really are gorgeous, and Richie makes a mental reminder to shoot a very nice thank you message to his management team tomorrow. He reaches for the box, ready to put an entire cupcake straight into his mouth, but gets his hand lightly smacked away. 

“You’re gonna spoil dinner, babe,” Eddie lightly admonishes. Richie almost pouts. Right, dinner. 

“Where are we going again?” Richie asks, watching wistfully as Eddie puts the box in the fridge. Eddie cocks an eyebrow at him. 

“Hey, what’s another word for…” he trails off, his face shifting into an expression as though he’s thinking really hard. “Startle?” 

Richie crosses his arms, shooting Eddie a withering look. “I swear, it’s really fucking easy to just go to thesaurus.com, I can do a step-by-step tutorial for you like, right now.” 

“Answer the question, Richie,” Eddie sticks his chin out, challenging, as he walks back to Richie and rests his hands on his shoulders, tracing their outline and looking up at him. Richie leans a hip against the counter, putting his hands on Eddie’s narrow hips, and humours him. 

“Hmm, shock?” 

“Not quite. Kind of there though.” 

“Astonish?” Eddie shakes his head again. “Uh, stun? Surprise?” 

“Ah! That’s the one,” Eddie says, patting Richie’s cheek only mildly patronisingly. 

“Okay? And what did you need that for?” Richie asks, slightly incredulous. 

“It’s a surprise,” Eddie says. Richie immediately wants to squash Eddie in the palm of his hand. “Go on, clean up and get dressed, wear something nice,” Eddie instructs, and sends Richie towards their bedroom with a playful pat on the ass. 

–––

Dinner is nice, and expensive. They get a private little booth in the corner of the fancy, intimate Italian restaurant Eddie picked, and the menu obnoxiously doesn’t list prices. It’s a small affair, like Richie had hoped. Just the two of them. There really was no need for it to be a surprise at all, but Richie guesses that it’s the sentiment that counts. Still, he feels overwhelmed and slightly underdressed in a printed shirt (one of his nicer ones, okay) and grey slacks, despite Eddie’s reassurance that he looks fine. The food is good, though, and one bottle of champagne becomes two, the bubbles going straight to their heads and giving them a nice buzz in their brains. 

Richie trips over his own foot, stumbling a little, on the way to pay for dinner, under the guise of going to the bathroom. He fumbles for his credit card, only to have Eddie sneak up behind him, a hand snaking around his waist and scaring the living daylights out of Richie. 

“I knew you were gonna do that, you sneaky fucking bastard. They already have my card,” Eddie says, hiccuping on the last word. He’s flushed in the face from the alcohol, glowing even, and completely, utterly gorgeous. 

“What? When?” Richie demands, only a little bit mad, but mostly confused. 

“When I went to the washroom just now,” Eddie says, giggling. And then, he fucking _boops_ Richie on the nose. “Beat you to it, babe.” 

Before Richie can even process _that_ , he hears a muffled _eugh_ from in front of them, and they both turn back to catch the offending waiter red-handed. Her face turns bright red when they do; she definitely did not expect them to have heard it. Richie doesn’t blame her, feeling his own ears burning in embarrassment at getting caught being grossly in love. She mumbles a quick _sorry_ as she hands Eddie his card, and Richie brushes it off, telling her not to worry about it and making sure to leave a fifty in the tip jar. 

The ride back home in the Lyft is mostly silent, the two of them sobering up, sweaty palms clinging to each other the whole way. Eddie is warm and loose from the champagne, his fingers dancing along Richie’s palms and sending tingles down his spine. He flinches slightly when Eddie hits a particularly ticklish spot on his wrist, which only eggs Eddie on to find the spot again, fingers grabby and laughter hushed.

When they get home, Richie crowds Eddie up against the door as he's getting their keys, arms wrapped around his waist and fingers determined to get back at Eddie for their mini sparring session in the backseat of some dude's car. Eddie barks a laugh and twists around when Richie digs his fingers into the spot just below his ribs, eyes sparkling and face pink in the cheeks. He's so fucking _beautiful_ , and Richie’s mouth goes dry at this sight of him. So he presses him up against the door, and kisses him, open mouthed and all tongue. Eddie gasps, and then melts into it, his lips soft and warm and inviting. His hands come up to tangle in Richie’s hair, keys dangling precariously from one of his fingers, freezing cold against the nape of Richie’s neck. 

“I love you,” Richie whispers against Eddie’s lips, pulling away ever so slightly and pressing his forehead against his boyfriend’s, and his chest hurts from how much he means it. He fights back a sniffle, his glasses already threatening to fog up. “I love you so fucking much.” 

Eddie’s face softens, and his hand cradles Richie’s face, and it’s only upon feeling the wetness on his cheek that Richie realises he’s gently rubbing away the traitorous tear that escaped.

“Ah, fuck,” Richie mutters, pulling back and tugging his glasses off, quickly wiping his face. “Don’t look at me,” he half whines, face burning. Eddie laughs, not unkindly, and pulls Richie’s hands off his face, replacing them with his own. He places a gentle kiss on Richie’s forehead. 

“I love you too, you dumbass,” Eddie says earnestly, leaning back casually against their door. His eyes are slightly glazed over, boring into Richie’s soul. Richie swallows the lump in his throat. 

“Come on, big guy,” Eddie says, gentle and soothing. He slowly untangles Richie’s glasses from his hands, and wipes them clean on his shirt, putting them back on his face. Richie is not going to cry at this. “There he is, let’s go in.” 

Eddie pours them each a glass of water when they’re in the kitchen, and makes sure they both finish the whole glass. The water is from the fridge, cold and crisp and tastes absolutely phenomenal on Richie’s dry, alcohol-ridden tongue. Eddie shoots him a look when they both start drinking, a silent challenge to a duel. Richie smirks, taking on the challenge. He starts to drink his water faster, gulping it down and trying not to choke on it laughing. Eddie pushes his shoulder lightly when he realises Richie is drinking faster, beating him in their stupid, silent race. Richie lets out a surprised _mmpf_ at the neg, and it bubbles into his water, spurting back into his face. His stomach fucking hurts from holding in his laughter, and tears start to form in his eyes. Eddie starts silently laughing, going red in the face and his shoulders shaking almost cartoonishly, and then he blows a laugh into his water too, sputtering and letting the cold water dribble down his chin and onto his shirt. 

“Dude,” Richie gasps out once he’s done having a breakdown, one hand on his hurting stomach and the other holding on to the edge of the counter. “That water is so crispy.” 

“Fuck, yeah,” Eddie grins, hand wiping uselessly at his chin. He wipes it onto Richie’s shirt, and Richie grabs him, reeling him in so their faces are close together again. He fingers the hem of Eddie’s shirt, playing with the fabric. 

“Thank you for tonight,” Richie says, and maybe it’s the alcohol, or the coughing fit from choking on his water earlier, but Eddie’s eyes start to shine a little. 

“I have a secret to tell you,” Eddie says, breaking eye contact momentarily as one of his hands coming up to fidget with Richie’s collar.

“Oh yeah? Hit me.”

“I… am in love with you,” Eddie says, looking back at him. He says it like it’s obvious, like he’s saying the sky is blue, or that water is wet (yes, they’ve had that argument countless times). And Richie feels like he’s been punched in the throat every single time, internally gasping for air in shock.

"Tell you a secret too, Eds," Richie says, sneaking a sly hand up Eddie's shirt and feeling up the raised skin on his back. "I... am in love with you too."

Eddie kisses Richie something fierce, knocking their noses together. Richie mumbles an _ow_ into Eddie's mouth, but he recovers as quickly as it happens. Eddie nibbles at his lower lip, tongue cold from the water, and his fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt. Richie helps him out, unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it off his shoulders, and then he's reaching for Eddie's shirt. Eddie grabs his wrist, stopping him, before he's dropping to his knees and reaching for Richie's belt.

Richie's dick twitches, already filling up as Eddie pulls his pants down to his knees and takes him out of his boxers.

"Eddie," Richie whimpers, looking down at Eddie, eyes dark and zeroed in on his dick. "Fuck, baby, you look so good."

"Thank you," Eddie says, and it's so ridiculously Eddie that Richie almost laughs in shock, just as Eddie takes his cock into his mouth and swallows him down. His mouth is still slightly cold, and Richie’s hips buck forward as he gives a shout of surprise, hitting the back of Eddie's throat. A hand flies into Eddie's hair, tightening around the strands as Richie guides his warm mouth up and down his cock. Eddie moans, and the vibrations send shock waves up Richie's spine. Richie silently thanks whoever's up there for Eddie's lack of a gag reflex.

Eddie suddenly pulls off, gasping for air and looking up at Richie, his chin shiny with spit and precum. "Fuck my mouth," he rasps, and Richie's knees go weak, heat pooling deep in his stomach. And what can Richie do except oblige? He fists his hand back in Eddie's hair, pulling him back onto his cock. He holds Eddie's head in place and thrusts into his mouth, warm and wet and so fucking good.

"Eds, I- I'm not- I'm not gonna last much longer," Richie pants, his hips stuttering. He gives a couple more thrusts before he stops, and Eddie's brows furrow in confusion. He pulls off Richie’s dick with a wet slurping noise. 

"What, don't you wanna come?" Eddie asks, breath short and almost wheezy.

"I- Not yet. I want you to fuck me, wanna come with you inside me," Richie grits out, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, trying to recover.

Eddie, the fucking asshole, shrugs, and says: "You can come again later." And then he's got his mouth back on Richie, sucking him down like a milkshake. Richie’s moans get higher in pitch as Eddie works his mouth on him, his cock giving a jump as Eddie traces the sensitive spot just under the head. One of Eddie's hands finds Richie's, tangling their fingers together momentarily before he drops it back onto his own head. With his mouth still around Richie’s dick, Eddie tells him to fuck his mouth again. Richie groans, fisting Eddie's hair and shoving his cock back down Eddie's throat. He looks like a fucking wreck, on his knees with tears streaming down his face and spit dripping off his chin and onto his pants and the kitchen floor. He's so fucking gorgeous, and Richie's gonna come down his fucking throat. 

"Eddie, Eds, _fuck_ ," Richie whines, and he can feel his lower belly tightening. He's close, he's so close. He isn't able to finish his sentence before Eddie nods, and Richie's absolutely done for. He thrusts in a couple more times before he's coming hot down Eddie's throat with a loud groan. Richie goes pliant against the counter while Eddie licks his softening dick clean, and his legs twitch with overstimulation.

"Ah, _ah_ , Eddie, come up here, you fucking asshole," Richie hisses, helping Eddie to his feet and licking into his mouth, chasing the bitter taste of himself on Eddie's tongue. Eddie's rock hard in his pants, but he tugs Richie's wandering hands away from his belt.

"No, I wanna fuck you. Just like you want," Eddie says, pressing his sweaty forehead to Richie's, and his voice is absolutely fucked.

"Okay, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Richie laughs, head fuzzy and swimming with endorphins. "My dick absolutely needs a break."

–––

Richie changes into yesterday’s sweatpants and slings a towel over his shoulders, splashing some water on his face. When he comes back into the bedroom, Eddie’s starfishing on the bed. He's swapped out his maroon button down and dress pants for a plain white T-shirt and loose boxer shorts. The curls of his hair have come loose from their gelled shape, shaken up by Richie's fingers. The room is dark, save for the lamps right next to their bed. The dim yellow light casts shadows all throughout the room. He gestures vaguely to the large tumbler of water on Richie's bedside table, mumbling something along the lines of _drink more water_ when Richie sits down on the bed next to him.

"Baby, I just pissed like a fucking horse and you want me to drink more water?" Richie asks, but grabs the tumbler anyways and sips the icy water. "Forget what I said, I'm leaving you for this water. This water is so fucking sexy, goddamn."

Eddie snorts, and it really should be unattractive, but alas. "It's literally just tap water."

"You're literally tap water," Richie shoots back stupidly. Eddie _tsks_ at him, and shifts when Richie nudges one of his legs out of the way, rolling onto his side and propping his head up with one of his arms. Richie climbs onto the bed and sprawls out vertically, on his stomach, limbs loose and brain now clearer post orgasm. He rests his head on his arms. Eddie brings a hand up to run through Richie's sweat slicked hair, and Richie leans into it, shutting his eyes and humming softly.

"C'mere," Eddie murmurs, tugging Richie onto his side and then onto his back. He carefully takes Richie’s glasses off and places them on his side table, and Richie blinks blearily up at Eddie. Slightly blurry or not, Richie thinks he’s probably the most beautiful thing he’s seen. Eddie slowly moves down to attach his lips to Richie's neck, sucking a mark into the soft flesh. Richie inhales sharply when he feels the nip of Eddie's teeth on the delicate skin, the twinge of pain blooming pleasurably. He plants more and more kisses down Richie's chest, and down his belly, and then, he blows a loud raspberry into the spot just above Richie's belly button.

Richie fully squawks in surprise, hands swooping to Eddie's sides to get a hold of him. Eddie's looking down at him and laughing, his mouth red around the edges from all the work it's been doing.

"You're such a little fucker," Richie gripes, grabbing Eddie's shoulders and hooking a leg into his and tumbling them over. Eddie yelps as he gets slammed into the bed, shrieking with laughter, hands clinging to Richie's shoulders as their bodies bounce back with the give of the mattress. Their heads knock together, hard, and the moment is lost. They break apart, groaning in unison. 

“Ow, you _dick_ ,” Eddie moans, rubbing at the sore spot on his forehead. Richie faceplants into the mattress, trying to alleviate the pain. A laugh wracks it’s way through his body, and he’s shaking, half crying, half laughing into the bedsheets. It’s all ridiculous, Richie feels stupid and insane and in love and it’s _ridiculous_. 

He turns his head and peeks an eye at Eddie, who’s still rubbing his forehead and his eyes are shut, his mouth fighting a smile. 

“Eddieee,” Richie fusses, voice warbly, walking his fingers along Eddie’s arm. Eddie gives a long, exasperated sigh, still smiling. 

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’m here.” 

“My head hurts,” Richie says, throwing in a sniffle for extra dramatic effect. He resists, with everything in him, adding in a pout. Eddie turns his head to scowl at him, and then brings a hand up to massage his thumb into Richie’s poor, sore forehead. 

“Oh yeah? Whose fault is that?” Eddie asks, pressing into the bruise playfully, just a fraction too hard. Richie hisses and pokes Eddie’s ribs, Eddie cackles and jolts away from his touch, rolling over onto his stomach. 

“Kiss it better,” Richie demands, flopping onto his back. He feels Eddie climb into his space, tangling himself under Richie’s arm and resting one of his own on Richie’s chest. Richie can hear him breathing shallowly, and he cracks open an eye. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Richie says, closing his eyes again, trying to shut out Eddie’s quiet, intense gaze. 

“Too bad,” Eddie says simply, cradling Richie’s head tenderly and angling it to face him. Then he kisses Richie’s forehead, just over the slight bump, feather soft. “I like this handsome face too much.”

It’s absolutely insufferable, the way that Eddie is relentless in his love. Richie still doesn’t know how to respond to it. So he clings to Eddie, kissing him again. Eddie lets himself be pulled in, a leg hooking over Richie’s waist and climbing into his lap. Richie thumbs at the hem of Eddie’s shirt, seeking permission, and Eddie pulls back, tugging his shirt over his head before his lips are back on Richie’s.

He can feel himself thickening up in his pants again. Richie drags his hand down Eddie’s back, feeling every jagged curve and raised bump on his skin. Traces the history of the life breathing and thrumming beneath it, proof of the life Eddie lived, of the one that he’s still living. Eddie starts to get squirmy in his lap, teetering on discomfort at the scrutiny.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," Richie whispers, retracting his hands to place them on Eddie's waist, barely touching the outlines of the scar. He keeps his eyes on Eddie, and his throat catches. He takes in a shuddering breath, and hangs his head in an amalgamation of guilt and shame and everything in between, fingers gripping Eddie's waist, holding him so close. It's definitely not the first time Richie's had hang ups like this, and Eddie is always there waiting for him, patient as a saint. Still, he feels awful about it. His chest is an ouroboros of guilt that keeps swallowing itself. Feeling guilty for feeling guilty, and then feeling guilty for that, isn't that a kicker?

"Hey, it's okay, love," Eddie murmurs, his fingers mapping the line of Richie's jaw. "Are you okay? We can stop."

Richie shakes his head, refusing to look up at him. 

"Baby, hey, look at me," Eddie coaxes, delicate and firm at the same time. Richie swallows the lump in his throat, and tilts his head up to finally look at Eddie. The low light catches beautifully in his brown eyes, deep and warm. 

"There you are, my big man," Eddie says, a soft smile spreading across his face. His thumbs stroke gently across Richie's cheeks, ghosting past his lower lip once. Richie feels his eyes flutter shut. "Do you want to stop? Be honest."

Richie shakes his head again. "No, please. I want you, I want all of you," his voice comes out crackly. Eddie nods, and kisses him on the forehead.

"Lie down for me, sweetheart. Let me take care of you."

Richie does as he's told, his limbs jittery and nervous system set alight. Laid bare and open for Eddie to see. He stares at the ceiling, steadying his breathing. 

"Relax, sweetheart, I'm here. I’m not going anywhere," Eddie assures, and Richie almost sobs. He wants to wrap himself around Eddie and never let go of him. 

"Eddie," he pleads. "Glasses, please. I wanna see you."

Eddie slides his glasses carefully onto his face, and Richie blinks up at him in clarity. He plants a kiss onto Richie's lips, before settling between Richie's legs, on his knees.

"I love you," Richie says for the thousandth time that night, and each time he means it more and more.

Eddie grins, devastating, and Richie's heart sings. "I know, Richie. I love you too. Now let me suck you off, please?"

Richie can't help it, he laughs, and laughs, and his entire body shakes with it. A warm tear streaks down the sides of his face and seeps into the crevice of his ear uncomfortably, but he can't be fucked to care. Eddie smacks his thigh indignantly.

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes, Eddie, oh my God. You're fucking ridiculous, you know that? Horny bastard."

"You're lying here looking like _that_ , and I'm the ridiculous one?" Eddie shoots back, pulling the elastic of Richie's sweatpants down. Richie lifts his hips to help him along, his dick springing free from the confines of his sweatpants. Eddie's eyes darken at the sight, and Richie's cock twitches.

"Yes," Richie says, and it comes out strangled, as Eddie wraps his hand around Richie and gives it a tentative stroke. "A ridiculous, _ah_ , horny gremlin, that I love very much." 

Eddie takes Richie into his mouth and he shuts up immediately, a punched out groan bursting out of his chest. He struggles to say anything, babbling nonsense as the blood rushes down from his brain to his dick, which is fattening up on Eddie’s tongue. Eddie pulls off his dick with a wet smack, leaning up and over Richie’s body to rummage through one of their drawers to find a bottle of lube. The press of Eddie’s still clothed erection against the junction of his thigh and hip makes him feel desperate, and he grinds frantically against it. 

“Patience, baby,” Eddie chides, pinching Richie’s thigh lightly. He’s slicking the fingers on his left hand up with lube, warming it up. “Can- can you turn over for me?” 

Richie nods, turning over and propping his lower half up on his knees, resting his forehead on his elbows. His glasses press uncomfortably into his nose, but he ignores it. He can hear Eddie’s breath get more laboured, and he can feel him just looking at him. 

“Eddie,” Richie pants. “Eddie, you gotta do something soon. You know I can only be on my knees for a limited time.” 

Eddie laughs, soft and full of love. “I know, old man,” he places a kiss on Richie’s tailbone, just above the crease of his ass. One of his hands comes up to spread one cheek open, and Richie gasps at the feeling of the cool air of the room on his now exposed hole. “Just wanted to see you like this for a while. You look so good.” 

“Eds, please,” Richie begs. 

“Tell me what you need, sweetheart.”

“Please, please put your fingers in me.” 

Eddie obliges, his lubed up fingers slipping in between his cheeks and rubbing up against Richie’s sensitive asshole in small circular motions. Then he slowly slips one finger in, to the second knuckle. A strangled noise bubbles up from Richie’s throat as his body instinctively tenses up around the intrusion of Eddie’s finger for a second. 

“Shh, relax, it’s just me,” Eddie whispers, thrusting his finger in shallowly, getting Richie to loosen up around him. He slowly inches the rest of his finger in, and Richie feels another one coming up to prod at his hole. 

“You’re doing great,” Eddie tells him, almost stoically, and Richie laughs wetly. 

“Thanks for the feedback, professor,” Richie snarks, and earns a sharp smack on the ass. He clenches down around Eddie’s fingers, which earns a nice little gasp from him. “You’re a monster. Wait, are you into that? You want me to be your sexy little ingenue, Prof K?” 

Eddie crooks his fingers in response to Richie’s bullshit, hitting his prostate dead on and Richie’s body spasms, lighting up to every end. 

“Found it,” Eddie says, back with his little report again. Richie can practically hear his grin. He does it again, rubbing at the spot inside him. The muscles in his legs twitch and spasm, and it takes an insane amount of self-constraint to not suddenly kick a leg out. 

“F-Fuck,” he moans, desperate, lifting and twisting his head to look at Eddie. His brows are furrowed, concentrating hard on taking Richie apart. “Eddie, please, fuck me already.” 

“You sure? I don’t know if you’re properly stretched out yet,” Eddie meets his eyes, looking concerned. 

“Baby, I’m so sure,” Richie says, turning around and resting his head back on his forearms. He swivels his hips back ever so slightly onto Eddie’s fingers. “Put your dick in me. Please, I want it so bad.” 

The squeeze of Eddie’s hand on his ass distracts Richie from the feeling of his fingers being pulled out of the clutch of his body, leaving Richie’s hole to clench around nothing desperately. He hears the last bits of lube being squeezed out, exiting the bottle with a wet sucking noise. Eddie shifts around on the bed, wiping his hands on the towel discarded somewhere on their bed. 

“I love you, you know that?” Eddie’s voice is low and soft, his hands are warm and steady on his hips. His wet cock nudges at the skin on the inside of Richie’s upper thigh, before Eddie redirects it to push up against his hole. 

“Eddie, baby, please,” Richie keens, lifting his head back up and bearing his weight on his elbows. Sweat drips down from his hairline and onto the covers, his legs quivering as Eddie eases himself in, careful not to absolutely ruin Richie’s asshole from the minor lack of stretching. When the head pops past the ring of muscle, they both groan shakily. 

And it’s good, it’s so good. Richie feels so full as Eddie slowly works the rest of his cock in, bottoming out, his hips resting against Richie’s. 

“Fuck, Richie,” Eddie says, and his voice sounds gravelly. “You feel so fucking good, so tight for me, baby.” He withdraws his hips slightly, and then pushes back in. Richie chokes on a sob, hands scrabbling in the sheets. He squeezes around Eddie’s dick, and Eddie lets out a ragged gasp. Richie needs Eddie to start moving, before he throws a fit right there and then. 

He does, thrusting in and out of Richie’s hole, the drag smoothed out by the lube and Eddie’s precum. On a particularly hard thrust, he nails his prostate with precision, and Richie feels his dick give a jump. 

“Fuck, _fuck_ , right there,” Richie whines, face down in the sheets and mouth open, drooling into the blankets. Eddie starts fucking into him, hard, hands gripping his hips and ass, bruising and possessive. 

“That feel good, sweetheart?” Eddie pants, his voice low and raspy. He cries out as Eddie gets his prostate again, and nods frantically into the sheets. “Good, you’re so good for me.” 

One hand snakes around Richie’s throat, pulling him up to press his back flush against Eddie’s front. Eddie’s other arm wraps firmly around Richie’s torso, grasping at one of his pecs. 

“Fucking love your tits, babe,” Eddie rasps into his ear, nipping at the lobe. A sob gurgles out of Richie’s throat, the change in position making his eyes water with how full it’s making him feel. He leans his head against Eddie’s shoulder, his exposed throat an invitation for Eddie to wrap his hand harder around it, pressing at the sides. His vision swims, swirly with pleasure, and he flounders to reach a hand up into Eddie’s hair, tugging firmly. His chest swells with pride at the noise Eddie makes. 

He feels so close now, his dick hard and twitching and leaking against his stomach, still untouched. “Eddie, Eddie, fuck, _Eds_ ,” Richie cries. 

“Are you close?” 

“Yes, _yes_ , please, I wanna see you,” Richie’s fully blubbering now. Eddie lets go of him, and pulls out. Richie scrambles to turn over and lie down on his back, facing Eddie, who’s ready with one of their throw pillows. He’s so beautiful, a healthy flush running down his neck and chest, a thin sheen of sweat slicking across his skin and glimmering in the low light. His dick is absolutely dripping, standing proud against his stomach. 

Richie hooks his legs around Eddie’s body and tugs him towards himself, leaning towards him and licking into his mouth, tasting his teeth. His arms wind themselves tightly around Eddie. 

Eddie smiles into it, tapping on Richie’s hip, a silent request. Eddie rests his forehead against Richie’s shoulder as he wiggles the pillow under him, angling his hips up as he guides his dick back into Richie. 

“Ah, fuck, Eddie, please,” Richie whimpers, arching his back as Eddie slides back into him. Panting into Richie’s ear, Eddie drags his tongue up Richie’s neck, licking away the thin layer of perspiration, marking him up with his teeth and then soothing it over with a few kittenish licks. He starts up the rhythm of his thrusts again, and the room fills with the squelching noises of their bodies smacking together again, skin on skin. Richie drags his fingers down Eddie’s back, no doubt leaving some long welts that Eddie will yell at him and then kiss him for later. He sits back on his knees again, hoisting one of Richie’s legs up onto his shoulder and kissing him up his shin and finishing with a small kiss on the ankle. His hair is fluffed up, loose curls dropping over his forehead. 

With one hand wrapped around Richie’s leg, Eddie takes Richie’s dick in his other, starting to jerk him off while fucking deep into him. Richie’s hands fly into his own hair, tugging at it, scrambling for some kind of purchase as he arches at the stimulation. Richie’s dick is so hard it hurts, flushed an angry red. He can feel the familiar swoop in his belly as Eddie continues to rail into him, and his throat feels raw as he cries out again and again.

“Are you gonna come, baby?” 

“Yes, yes, _fuck_.” 

“Come on, come for me, darling,” Eddie says, heated and rough and that does Richie in. Every muscle in his body convulses and then tenses up, and he comes, hot and messy onto his own stomach, mixing with their sweat. Eddie is still fucking into him, and Richie is close to wailing at the stimulation. 

“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come too,” Eddie pants, breaths getting more and more laboured. He shuts his eyes and leans his sweaty forehead onto Richie’s shin, brows furrowed in concentration as his mouth falls open. 

“Inside me, come inside me,” Richie whines. Eddie gets in a few more pumps before he’s filling Richie up with a cry, slumping over onto Richie’s thoroughly fucked out form. They lie there, chests heaving and bodies hot and disgustingly moist. Eddie kisses him on the chest, resting his chin there to look tiredly up at Richie. His cock is softening up inside Richie, and he can already feel some of the come leaking out from his ass onto the bed sheets. He drags a hand through Richie’s damp hair, fingers catching on tangled up sections. Eddie moves to pull out, and Richie instinctively wraps his legs around his butt, stopping him. 

“Just, a while more,” Richie whispers. Eddie nods, pressing his lips to Richie’s before settling into a more comfortable position, lying back down onto Richie’s chest. Richie wraps his arms around him and kisses his forehead. They do this sometimes, for longer periods, even; Richie’s done it for Eddie and vice versa. It’s somehow one of the more intimate things for Richie, not wanting to feel empty so quickly after being fucked. Something about being still (quite literally) attached to each other, even after the sexy stuff is done. Tonight, Richie just wants Eddie as close to him as possible. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Richie. Don’t fall asleep, man, we’re gross,” Eddie mumbles into his chest after a while, a straying hand flopping around to lightly smack at the general area of Richie’s face. Richie opens his bleary eyes and inhales sharply, unaware that he’d even started to drift off to sleep in the first place. 

“Shit, sorry,” Richie says, stretching his sore legs out from where they’re bent at a weird angle. “How long has it been?” 

“I don’t know, fifteen minutes?” Eddie says flippantly. “I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” 

Richie hisses at the sensation of Eddie’s cock sliding out of his body where he’s wet and loose, feeling more come spill out and pool into the sheets beneath them. Eddie sits up, grimacing at the feeling of their skin slowly unsticking, thanks to Richie’s drying come. He looks down at Richie’s leaking hole, and presses two fingers to it again, scooping some of it back into Richie.

“Fuck, you’re so wet here, baby,” Eddie whispers, like he’s in awe. “So wet with my come.” 

“Eddie, ah, fuck, Eddie, I can’t go again,” Richie whines, squirming at the overstimulation. Eddie pulls his fingers out, wiping them on their already filthy bedsheets. He hauls himself up and off the bed, reaching for Richie’s hands, ready to pull him up and into the shower. 

“Don’t wanna move,” Richie says petulantly. Eddie rolls his eyes, and squeezes his hands tightly. 

“Come on, my big, disgusting, hairy house husband,” Eddie says, sing-songs it, even. Richie almost envies how annoying Eddie gets thanks to his post-sex high. He grunts as he pulls Richie’s exhausted body, making him sit up, by his arms. “Your disgusting boyfriend needs a shower and would like it very much if you would join him.” 

“Wait, why are you my boyfriend if I’m your house husband?” Richie asks, his tired legs almost giving out as he stands up. Eddie holds him steady, and lets him crack the stiffness out of his knees. 

“I’m just your sexy side piece, or something, in this scenario,” Eddie says nonsensically, grabbing some towels from the dresser on the way to their bathroom. 

“Baby, that makes no sense at all,” Richie laughs. He stands naked and awkward in the middle of their bathroom as Eddie turns on the shower. As the water runs, he turns back to Richie and walks over to him, running his hands over Richie’s shoulders. 

“I don’t know. We’ll figure it out,” Eddie tells him. Simple as that. 

In the shower, Eddie shampoos Richie’s hair and Richie does the same for him, forming stupid little shapes on each other’s heads. Richie inspects the mole just below Eddie’s shoulder blade upon his request and gravely diagnoses him with an overdose of sunblock, which he gets sprayed in the face with their detachable shower head for. 

And after their nice, hot shower, Eddie will change out their sheets for fresh ones. And Richie will sappily hand feed him the birthday cupcakes that sit in their fridge. And they will drift into a peaceful, dreamless sleep, for once. Eddie is right. Richie has just turned 45, and he has time to figure all of it out. They have time to figure all of it out. The rest of their lives, even.

**Author's Note:**

> yell @ me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/crunchyseaweeds)
> 
> thanks for reading! they are annoying and revoltingly in love. hope you enjoyed this and as always, let me know if i missed any tags/warnings.


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